


An Allegory of Death

by nischi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Frottage, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Murder Husbands, OR IS HE, Priest AU, Priest Kink, dubcon, hannibal is literally the devil, maybe it's a metaphor, will graham is a priest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:58:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4467998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nischi/pseuds/nischi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal priest!AU. </p><p>Father Graham is ready to take confession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by a Petrarch painting, An Allegory of Fame. Take me to all the free art galleries, pls. 
> 
> Apologies in advance to anybody I may offend for absolutely fucking up the Catholic faith... My knowledge of religion is dubious at best. 
> 
> In writing this fic I discovered my beta was, in fact, Catholic. As an apology I went to church, paid my dues, and did not burn up at the door. This fic has been an experience.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He who conceals his sins does not prosper, but whoever confesses and renounces them finds mercy." - Proverbs, 28:13

Footsteps echoed sharply on the stone floor, keys rattling in hand. Will was preparing to lock up the doors to the main entrance of the church. It was becoming dark, and in the later months of the year very few people from Wolf Trap visited once the sun had gone down. The streets were too cold, the churchyard too sinister. It was not a welcoming place. 

Father Graham did a lap around the yard, checking for any strays. In the past few months as the weather worsened, they had begun to congregate under a large tree in front of the chaplaincy and Will couldn’t bring himself to leave them there. He would always do a last-minute walk around before heading home each night. It had become part of his routine, and the walk calmed his thoughts after a weary day. He liked the routine; it kept his demons at bay. 

He spotted no dogs that night, silently relieved that his commute home would not require a visit to the dog shelter. He tried hard to keep them, but his house had passed its optimal canine carrying capacity 3 or 4 dogs ago. 

Will sighed. He really should’ve picked up a scarf - it was practically winter and he was chilled to the bone. 

As he completed his loop around the church, the priest approached the front door and found it to be slightly ajar. He was sure he had closed it when he left – the church had a problem with draught, and Will kept it as sealed up as possible to keep the damp out. Graham tugged on the ring-pull, and the old gothic door creaked open further. 

A tall figure wrapped in a russet overcoat was standing in the far corner of the hall, brooding over a sparsely lit group of prayer candles. Will looked away, giving the man some privacy, and instead turned his attention upon the altar, walking towards it. The gentleman had clasped his hands together in front of his stomach, lips pursed. Sharp eyes flitted towards the sound of the opening door, and he huffed.

Father Graham got the impression that he was being snubbed. He shivered as he felt the man glare at him – though only for a moment, before dismissing him without a second thought. Father Graham sensed a great distain emanating from the man, like a putrid aura filling the room.

Will Graham had been spurned by numerous people throughout his life. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, but it had occurred less frequently since choosing to become a man of the cloth. Will seethed silently. This time it felt more personal. These were _his_ grounds, and he had every right to be discourteous to those who did not respect that. 

“Though companionship is always offered from our Lord in Heaven, I am afraid that the doors to this particular establishment need to close now.”

The blond man frowned, and his dark eyes glinted in the soft candlelight. He pushed his overcoat aside and slid his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, slowly turning on his heels to face the priest. 

Will shuffled uncomfortably. He folded his arms and lowered his gaze, hiding behind the rims of his glasses. 

Though he was blatantly trying to avoid it, Will could sense the man’s heavy stare “Not fond of eye contact, are you?” he said, accented voice deeper and more European than Will expected. There was an awkward moment of palpable tension that drew out between them. 

“Eyes are distracting,” Will scoffed, scanning the rest of the room. There were a few stray bibles lying amongst the pews that he hadn’t noticed, and would need to put them away. The old building was looking more and more dilapidated by the day, but the art on the walls still filled him with awe. The fables of John; Peter addressing the masses; Mary cradling her child. 

“I had actually hoped to come for confession, but I see that I chose an inconvenient moment. This is the only chance I have to show face at church during the week, and was remiss in remembering that places of worship function just as any other business might.” The tall man exposed his teeth in a sly grimace, and before Will could object to the man’s blatant affront, he continued; “I have many sins for which I need to confess, and the grace of God, I fear, is the only law by which I willingly abide.”

Will was still looking down, averting his eyes in every way possible – he failed to notice the man’s hands slowly emerging from his pockets; a shimmer of silver glinting on exposure to the light, like a chemical reacting to air. 

Will snuffled, turned on his feet and stalked towards the confessional, the man closely following in his shadow.

\------------

"When was the last time you came to confession?" Will slid open the grill. 

"Well, Father, it would be safe to say that it has been a rather long time. The last priest I took confession from ended up in a bit of a stew and promptly took leave of his practise."

Will was tired. His eyelids were drooping and he had no time for small talk. He was content with his position in the ailing rural church but was decidedly wishing he had reasons to excuse himself from confession this night. Though not for lack of trying, Graham had not been able to commit to a suitable reason for sending this man away from his guidance. Instead, he let the man spin his tale. 

"So, where would you like to start?" Will muttered. He rubbed his closed eyes with the pads of his fingers. 

The penitent hunched his shoulders forward minutely and brought his hands to his face, pressing his slender digits together. "Firstly, I wish to ask you where we stand." Will looked up from his daze, barely making out the profile of this new acquaintance through the grill holes in the darkness of the confessional. Top lip jutting out, the man gently kissed the distal tips of his fingers. He exuded some sort of wicked charm, and it was lacing its magic around Will. 

There was a loud crash and Father Graham jumped. The wind was battering the shutters; hinges screaming and a winter storm began to roll in. 

An eerie breeze crept into the booth. Will Graham shivered. He glanced through the grill to see the hint of a smile, masked by the sudden plunge into darkness when the candles in the hall blew out. 

"My vocation commands that I do not pass judgement. The sacramental seal is inviolable; therefore it is absolutely forbidden that I betray in any way a penitent; in any manner and for any reason. If that is what you wish to know."

The handsome blond shifted in his seat, the fabric from his heavy outdoor coat rustled with the movement. Clearing his throat, he began; "In the name of the Father and of the Son and the Holy Spirit. My last confession was... Well, it fell on deaf ears, so perhaps it may not have been counted."

Will huffed, and muttered, "The Lord will have heard it, even if the Father did not," and then, whispering under his breath, "Though I pity your last confessor for the chewing out you must have given him afterwards." Will heard a sharp intake of breath.

"I do not believe in many of the 'sins' to which you may well hold me accountable for," The man started. "Were I to admit to them right now, I would easily be condemned as 'guilty' in the eyes of the church - and to a greater extent, the law - for many of my actions. However, this is not why I find myself here today."

The wooden bench creaked as he slid down into it, relaxing and preparing to reel off a tale for the unassuming, plain priest on the other side of the confessional. 

"I pride myself in being a justified sinner, as I believe that God did not create all as equals. I collect church collapses; he loves those.” There was a hearty chuckle, a low rumble that soaked into the deep wood of the confession booth. “There is a pile of rubble in Italy where a facade fell on grandmothers at a special mass. Is that evil? Should God repent for his sins of taking a life?" 

Both parties took a sharp intake of breath, though for decidedly different reasons. Will was feeling very uncomfortable. This man had waltzed into his confessional, and was now attacking his God... He thought? Was that what he was getting at? The man was talking in riddles, wires became tangled somewhere along the line and Will had not received the descrambler. 

The Father did not understand the reason for the blond man’s gasp. He chose to think no further of it. 

Before Will could object and ask the man politely to leave his sanctum, his dulcet flow continued, waxing poetic about failing to follow the creed of the church. 

"... But that discussion is perhaps left for a more appropriate time. I am here to confess to a more carnal desire. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

William looked up towards the sticky-sweet voice; stale honey still somehow luring in the unwitting flies. He caught a glimpse of something unearthly - a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, which was completely forgotten the second he glanced further upwards; right into a pair of bewitching eyes. 

Will hadn't noticed those eyes before. He had avoided them. They were mesmerising. It wasn't that he couldn't make eye-contact; it was just easier not to. Will Graham was falling, and he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to bring himself back, the confessional booth around him completely forgotten. 

"Recently I have found myself lusting after supple, tender flesh. Wishing to feel it writhe under my fingertips, blood pumping, pleasuring every fibre of my being. I fear that I shall commit more sins of the flesh before I am satiated." 

The darkness was playing tricks on Will Graham. He reached for his rosary and began to worry the beads insistently, heart beat quickening. The devil before him appeared to consist completely of shadows, bony projections twisting from its forehead and branching out through the roof of the confessional. 

"Perhaps the worst part is that I have no inclination, nor reason, to stop myself."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If we confess out sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness." - John, 1:9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad people actually like this fic omg it feels like all the struggle to write it was worth it. I had the longest week at work and so now I'm just gonna upload this and run off to bed

Will hovered near the main entrance to the church. The sun had gone down and darkness was beginning to roll in, but there were a few people still lingering after the evening service. He could not bring himself to throw them out, but he was starting to get impatient. The solemnity was weighing greatly on Father Graham’s shoulders.

Tall glass windows cast long shadows on the pews, dust dancing in the streaked moonlight. Will found solace in the specks; forgetting his surroundings, he waved his fingers through the beams of light. He appreciated the design of the chapel. Will often wondered if it was treasured by anyone else, or if the dark beauty of its intricate brickwork was lost en masse. He paced around the side of the hall, approaching a small number of patrons beside the candles.

“Can I be of any service to you?” Will opened his arms to a young girl standing a little away from her parents, by the altar. She was worrying the collar of her dark green coat, her eyes frantically searching for something, glare sharpened by the candlelight.

“I’m just… We’re praying. For my friend. Cassie. She went missing last week.” The girl wrapped her hand around her neck, as if to stop herself from saying more. She puffed out her lips.  


Will knew better than to pry where people did not wish it. He left well away, asking no further, and spoke softly. “Would you like me to add her name to the next sermon? So that we may assist you in your prayers for her to make a speedy return.” Will knew it wasn’t much, but it was all he felt he could offer. Recently, a lot of young girls had gone missing in Wolf Trap and its neighbouring towns, and the search parties had come up with nothing. There wasn’t much more the police said they could do, and as time passed the community had started to lose hope.  


The middle-aged man beside her turned towards the priest, grabbed his daughter by the shoulders and pulled her out of the way. He pushed himself in front of her, acting as a physical barrier. “That won’t be necessary, Father. We were just leaving.”  


Will could see the pain in the girl’s eyes, crying out for help, but gave nothing more than a sad smile. He hoped her friend would be found, but the odds were looking more unlikely by the day. A woman joined the group and the couple shuffled away, huddled together as if to shield their daughter from the world. Will was struck by a pang of loneliness – for the girls who were missing and their grieving families; for the families who prayed their daughter would not be next; and for himself. Taking up the cloth meant he would not marry, which suited Will perfectly fine at that time.  


Now, though, years later he had begun to realise what he was missing out on. Someone to care for him, to look after him, to settle his fears. He had his prayers - and most nights that was enough - but sometimes he would wake in the night covered in a cold sweat. Not even his belief could settle him on those nights, and he would suffer the rest of the day in a state of unease and exhaustion.  


Will shuddered and rubbed his stubbled jaw. Pining after something both unlikely and impossible wasn’t going to get him anywhere; he needed to rest. His chest ached with despair for the missing girls, and Will wondered if he would be swallowed up by empathy until he heard purposeful footsteps approach him.  


“Hello, Father,” the husky voice sounded as if projected from below Will’s feet. He frowned at the floor, his thoughts interrupted, before turning to greet the tall gentleman who had first visited the church a few days ago.  


Graham was too tired for etiquette, and stared morosely at the blond man. “I’m sorry, your name escapes me. We did not have a proper introduction - Father Will Graham, pastor of this church.” He bared his teeth in a grotesque semblance of a friendly grin.  


“I apologise, it was rude of me to omit my name last time we met. Dr Hannibal Lecter. I recently moved my psychiatric practise to this town and felt that perhaps I made a bad impression. So, I brought a piacular offering, to extend the hand of friendship.”  


In Hannibal’s outstretched arm he held a small metal container. “I felt inspired to cook. I would be grateful if you were to accept my rather selfish bequest.” He tipped his head forward in the modicum of a bow, and added, “I apologise if I cause offense, but I could not deny myself the pleasure of cooking you a dish.”  


Will didn’t know how to react. Refusing the man’s gift would be rude, and it was true that he was struggling to motivate himself to cook a full meal lately… But the man was also overstepping his boundaries.  


“As a deacon of the church, to accept such a gift would be inauspicious. I cannot in good faith agree to such a handout.” Will was not fond of making new acquaintances; most found him standoffish and callous, and he would rather spare himself the effort. He pushed the proffered box aside.  


“Then do not think of it as a gift. Rather, a trade. By accepting this you would be doing me a favour, and I would be in your debt. Perhaps I could make it up to you by inviting you to dinner and preparing a fresh meal?” Hannibal lilted.  


Will frowned, replying, “Your efforts would be wasted attempting to pursue a rapport with a lowly priest – I would advise you take your friendship elsewhere. You should just keep this professional.” Will punctuated his speech by turning on his heels, and managed a few steps before Hannibal replied.  


“Or we could socialise like adults, God forbid we become friendly.”  


Will snickered; the man’s determination was evident. He wasn’t going to back down, it would seem. “That’s not as appealing an offer as you seem to think.” Father Graham rubbed his collar, and looked over his shoulder at Hannibal. The psychiatrist had edged forward and was still presenting the container to Will.  


Will shook his head, and accepted the box. He noted the elegant instructions taped to the lid dictating how to reheat its contents.  


Dr Lecter suppressed a smirk, dipping his head towards Will as his gift was received.  


“Interesting.”  


\------------

Dirt underneath ragged fingernails. Clumps of dirt. Crumbling. Falling away beneath clammy hands. Grasping hands.

Will woke up.  


He was standing in a pit. Well, kneeling. The dirt beneath him was soft, cool. He flexed his fingers in the smooth earth, breathing in the scent of soil. Will began to shiver. Slowly, at first, then with more fervour. His hands were convulsing as he tried to curl up, minimising his exposure to the outside world. Shaking hands grasped across his body, trying and failing to hold on to tense biceps.  


The cold winter air chilled him to the very core. The night sky held no comfort for him; stars barely emitting enough light for Will to see his surroundings.  


He had lost time again.  


Will couldn’t remember stumbling into a pit. He didn’t feel any pain in his legs, so the priest probably didn’t fall down here. A dull ache in his arms indicated a more likely course of events.  


As he tried to stand up, Father Graham stumbled over a metal pole lying beside him. It made a dull clang against the side of his brogue. Probing the earth, Will confirmed his suspicions – it was a spade.  


He was standing in a grave.  


The walls weren’t quite the regulation 6 feet deep, but Will knew unequivocally where he was. He had conducted enough funeral rites to recognise the inside of a grave, though never quite from this perspective.  


Will scraped at the closest wall, vying for purchase. The dirt fell away between his fingers. He scrambled higher but still no luck – the deep soil was damp and crumbly from the cold and getting a foothold was proving nigh on impossible.  


Will shook violently, still convulsing against the cool surface. He felt the bile rising in his throat as he often did after episodes like this, and dry-heaved the non-existent contents of his stomach. Stomach acid left a vile taste in his mouth, and Graham undid his collar allowing his respiratory tract more room to distend.  


He sucked in a few gaping breaths. The cold air felt icy as he swallowed it down.  


Picking up the shovel, Will swung the head into the dirt wall, about a foot off the ground. He pushed as hard as he could, wedging it in deep so it wouldn’t budge in the loose soil. Using the hilt as a stepladder, Will reached up over the lip of the pit and dug his fingers into the topsoil, lifting himself up over the side and out.  


Crawling along the ground, Will reached a nearby headstone and sidled up against it. The physical exertion was taking its toll, and the Father couldn’t remember when he last ate a proper meal. What time was it? Come to mention it, what day was it? He was exhausted.  


Shaking against the tombstone, Will began to sob. Stifling his cries, he covered his face with the sleeves of his soil-stained cassock. For a moment, Will thought he saw something black and sticky fraying the edges near his ankles, but he pushed this thought from his mind. He had woken up walking unknown streets too many times to count, and now knew it was easier to just pray for salvation than hope to reclaim lost memories.  


Father Graham tensed as he felt a warm hand slide over his quivering shoulder.  


“Will?”  


Hannibal’s voice broke through the fear and anxiety that plagued Will. He grasped onto Hannibal’s hand, as if trying to sap the warmth right out of it and into his own. His fingers were still spasming and his grip wasn’t strong enough to hold tightly. Hannibal slid both hands up and down Will’s arms, trying to rub some warmth into them. He could smell a cold sweat breaking out on Father Graham’s brow. The priest couldn’t decide if this was a part of his nightmare.  


“Will, what are you doing out here?” Hannibal whispered, the sound travelling a great distance to reach the Father’s chilled ears. “Let us get you wrapped up inside.” Hannibal helped Will to his feet, pulling the shivering man closer to him, sharing body heat. It was nearing the dead of night, and Wolf Trap was approaching its coldest hour.  


Will appreciated the warmth. He closed his eyes, leaning in to the other man’s touch.  


“Not yet, dear Will, if you fall asleep here I will have to carry you back inside the church. Wouldn’t that be a sight? Carrying you across the threshold of your own domicile.” Hannibal half-suppressed a laugh at the thought.  


Stumbling and teetering, they made it back to the entrance of the church. Will was clearly in no state to drive himself home, and the shock from waking up outside left him pliant enough for Hannibal to bundle him into his car. Hannibal turned the heaters up to a comfortable level, and Will Graham drifted off into a fitful sleep pitted with demons and mausoleums.  


\------------

The smell of freshly brewed tea wafted towards Will, bringing him back to himself. He was sitting at an island in Hannibal’s kitchen, completely oblivious to the world beyond the ivory walls. The kettle was hissing, steam rising and then dissipating. Will felt like he could relate to the water inside the kettle; boiling up and spreading himself thin.

A weight pressed down around him, and he turned to find a blanket loosely draped over his shoulders. It was a horrid paisley pattern, befitting of the man it belonged to. The material was too smooth to provide comfort, but it made up for it with warmth.  


“This tea was made from a rather fine valerian root, known for promoting good sleep and easing tension. Though I would not substitute it for a prescription, I find it calms the nerves as well as any good cup of tea can.”  


Hannibal strode across the floor, like a king among his royal subjects. He commanded the attention of everyone in the room – though in this instance the only eyes belonged to Father Graham and they were firmly set on the outline of Hannibal’s broad back.  


Will’s eyes were hazy from disorientation, but somehow he focussed perfectly on Hannibal. Delicate hands placed a bone china teacup in front of Will, setting it down with only the slightest clink against the stainless island. Hannibal placed another slightly further away. The rims were decorated with a faint blue ring.  


The kettle screamed. Dr Lecter moved towards it, talking with his back to Will. “Would you like to talk about why you were climbing out of a grave?”  


Hannibal’s kitchen was a rich colour, full of stainless steel surfaces and decorated with many utensils Will recognised, and some he didn’t. A few ingredients were strewn around the island Will was seated at.  


Hannibal poured the hot water, alongside some valerian granules. He continued, “One could say that was almost symbolic – dragged from the grip of the afterlife, like Lazarus. Born again from death, and even now still in your death clothes.”  


Will looked down at his grubby cassock. He pulled the blanket further over his body, retreating into himself. Covering up his sin.  


The hot water mixed with the granules, staining the liquid darker. Graham twiddled his thumbs over the rim. His throat was rough and speaking grated on his vocal chords.  


“I… Don’t know what day it is.”  


Hannibal looked up, surprised. That wasn’t the response he was expecting. He urged Will to continue, hoping his silence was comforting rather than unsettling.  


“I was locking up the church after you left, and I saw a shadow. It came closer, overlapping mine, but it belonged to nothing. They twisted. Integrated. Grew.” Will took a shaky sip, the tea calming his nerves but not his quivering hand. His voice darkened. “I heard… Something. Whispering. Demonic voices, assaulting my senses. I was overwhelmed by cold.” Will looked up from his tea and right into Hannibal’s eyes.  


“And then I woke up in that grave.”  


Hannibal remained silent. He mindlessly stroked his jaw, feeling the itch of the short hairs rub against his fingers. And then he grinned.  


“So you do not remember anything that has happened since then? Father, that was nearly a whole day ago.” Will visibly trembled. He was practically vibrating. Hannibal removed the teacup from his loose grasp, fearful the teacup might break if he did not see to it.  


Hannibal firmly grabbed Will’s shoulder, and lifted his free palm to feel Will’s forehead. Checking for signs of a fever, Will was still shaking, but the tremors calmed a little. The weight of Hannibal seemed to ground him, pressing down on him like the tastefully-patterned comforter. Hannibal looked into Will’s eyes; eyes which rapidly flickered from side to side, unfocussed. “Will, are you still with me?”  


Will looked up, Hannibal’s gaze piercing daggers through his thoughts. Synapses were firing; the Father could almost hear the electrical impulses snapping in his ears.  


And with a deafening blow, Will’s thoughts were silenced as Hannibal’s lips consumed him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Brothers and sisters, if someone is caught in a sin, you who live by the Spirit should restore that person gently. But watch yourselves, or you also may be tempted." - Galatians 6:1

Father Graham dragged his heels all the way to the church. It was too early for anybody to be out walking by, so he didn’t have to fear putting on the airs of a calm spirit. The burdens of the world felt heavy on Will’s shoulders today, and he slept erratically. The shadows under his eyes were haunting his pallid face.

Wearily, Will wondered if he would ever sleep well again. Reaching the courtyard, he swung open the gate.

A cold winter smog had rolled in overnight, haunting the churchyard; the tombstones poking out through the mist like buoys drifting on a calm wave. Will unlocked the door to the main hall, forcing his way past the heavy black doors, saggy with age. The smell of copper assaulted his senses and left a sour tang on his tongue.

Father Graham sat down in the pew closest to the door. He clasped his hands together, placing them on the pew in front, and rested his forehead on them. Closing his eyes, Will exhaled.

Father Will Graham was having a crisis of faith.

The events of the previous night swung into focus with a wicked clarity. Will could still feel the dirt of the grave under his nails; the cold sweat of arousal on his skin. He furrowed his brows further.

“O Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Saviour,” Will muttered under his breath, “Forgive me my sins, just as You forgave Peter’s denial and those who crucified You.” Will brought his hands to his face and traced the pad of his thumb along his bottom lip, feeling the warmth of the memory that lingered there.

The scent of roasted vegetables floated back to him, to the island in Dr Lecter’s kitchen. Will arrived too late to eat, but the smell lingered – the very essence of a home. Comforts that Will lacked. The memory chilled him to the bone, his shoulders convulsed with guilt.

_“I have been wanting to do that since I took Confession.” Hannibal goaded. He smoothed his hands across the Father’s broad shoulders, straightening out the creases in the paisley blanket._

_Will shuddered, heat coursing through his body._

_“Would you permit me more, Father?”_

_Will pulled the blanket closer, appealing for its comfort. He huffed out a breath, and slowly lifted a hand to Hannibal’s cheek._

_The blond man’s voice quietened, tone sultry and guttural. “Would you accept me?”_

He stood up and strode down the aisle, walking purposefully towards the golden altar at the fore of the church hall. He shook the previous night from mind, blood running cold. The smell of copper hit him, becoming overbearing. Stomach souring, Will looked for the source of the cloying stench.

Sitting in a pew near the front of the hall was a young girl, head bent in prayer. Her long dark hair fell in front of her face, hands clasped in her lap. Between them she held a single, small white rose - a stark contrast to her black gloves.

“Excuse me, the church is not open yet. If you are in need of guidance I would ask that you come back for the morning service.” As Father Graham approached the young girl, he noted her pale appearance. She did not acknowledge him. 

Will crept closer, reaching out for her shoulder. “Please, I ask that you leave.”

The girl tipped forwards and slid right off the pew, crumpling on the floor in an unnatural position. Her face was splashed with blood. The Father looked down at her hands again, realising that what he had assumed were black gloves were in fact hands soaked in dried blood. Will stumbled backwards and crashed into a pew on the other side of the aisle, tripping over his own feet.

He landed hard on his coccyx, bouncing on the hard wooden floor.

Rushed footsteps clattered across the hall.

“Will? Are you alright?” Hannibal strode towards the fallen priest, concern visible on his face. He reached out to the man lying prostrate at the base of the wooden stalls. Hannibal rested his left hand on Will’s knee, extending his right to Will’s cheek, brushing away a stray curl. Will jumped. What was Dr Lecter doing here? He shied away, recoiling from the touch.

The Father hadn’t seen the charismatic man enter the church. He definitely did not invite the man in himself.

“Don’t--!” Will snapped.

Hannibal’s concern fell away, and Will struggled to read the emotion that replaced it. He could not be certain, but malice appeared to flicker across Hannibal’s dark eyes. Will was not able to articulate any more likely emotion. Malice and… something else.

Father Graham pushed Hannibal away from him, standing up on shaky legs.

“I need to call the police.”

\------------  


 “So, what you’re telling me is that you have never seen this girl before? That she just somehow ended up in _your_ church, even though you are the only one with a key?” Chief Inspector Jack Crawford crowded over Will, completely obliterating Will’s perception of personal space.

Father Graham replied tersely, “She was a patron of my church, but this church has been locked since around 9 last night. There is no conceivable way that she somehow snuck in in the middle of the night and died on that pew.”

Crawford was the stubborn head of the local police department, and Will had always been given the really sharp end of the stick in his dealings with the man. Though he had called in various break-ins and burglaries of the church, Jack always treated Father Graham like he was the criminal. It was hard to stay level-headed around him but Jack was his only option after discovering a body in the hall.

“Well, the victim would appear to be one of the girls that went missing earlier this month, one Cassie Boyle. I’ll spare you the candid details, but it’s safe to say she was most likely placed here after death. No signs of a struggle but the body had been disturbed – pathologist says she‘s lost most of her blood and maybe even a few organs." Jack frowned at the priest, “Were there no other witnesses? No reason to suspect foul play?”

Will ran through the night’s events once more in his head, reliving the feeling of waking up in a grave and having lost time. He remembered bringing out a key to lock up, before ending up at Hannibal’s house… And the feeling of soft lips…

Will shuddered violently. A spark ran through his body, causing the hair on his arms to stand on end at the memory. He swiftly reminded himself of the exsanguinated corpse sitting before him, grounding himself back in reality.

“The good Father here has answered all of your questions with the utmost of respect, and as a doctor I feel that I must put an end to your interrogation. He has suffered a greatly traumatic event, and is not in the correct state of mind to continue this at present.” Hannibal stood tall, exerting his professional authority over that of Crawford’s. “If you will excuse us, we shall leave you to your investigation.”

Hannibal placed his hands gently on Will Graham’s shoulders, and lightly guided him away from the policeman and down the hallway towards Will’s office.

“This is the first one that’s turned up… Guess that tells us there’s not much hope for the rest of the girls…” Out of earshot, Jack Crawford shouted at his underlings, “Price! Zeller! I need you to collect every single fibre of evidence – don’t miss anything.”

He looked over his shoulder at the receding clergyman, and muttered, “Something doesn’t sit right with me about that priest.”

\------------  


Will sank down into his desk chair, the dull pain in his temples becoming more pronounced by the second.

“Well, that was a rather unusual turn of events.” Hannibal broke the silence, walking round the desk and stopping beside Will, resting against the wood. He slid his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, taking in a deep breath. Things were getting interesting.

Father Graham was quaking in his chair. He hadn’t spoken to Hannibal since the previous night, and after the shock of discovering a murder victim in his place of worship, Will was rather reluctant to talk. Avoidance had always been easier than confrontation.

The walls were lined with bookcases full of old materials; texts in Latin and Italian and English strewn haphazardly across the shelves and piled up in corners. Some of the books were so old their covers were peeling from the binding. Nestled in amongst the scripture were a couple of fishing volumes.

Will could sense Hannibal trying to catch his eye.

He lowered his head, dark brown curls clouding his vision. He wrung his hands a little too enthusiastically, seeing spots of dirt where he had touched the cold victim. It was almost theatrical. Silly, really, as the body had been left in perfect condition.

The Father cleared his throat quietly and noted that Dr Lecter was making no attempt to leave any time soon. “Why are you here?” He asked.

The shaking man looked up to greet a response, only to find Hannibal sending him a queer look. He felt the same electric shudder that had preceded the…. Incident from last night. It seemed to both raise his body temperature and chill him to the bone. A hot, cool flush. “I came to see to your mental health. I cannot stand by and let you witness such a traumatic event and not offer my professional assistance.” Hannibal turned away and looked out the latticed window, not focussing on anything outside, but Will was of the impression he was doing it to put the Father at ease. “That would be discourteous. This is the least I can do.” Removing the burden of eye contact, Will comfortably slouched back into his chair.

His frayed nerves had calmed down a little, and Will’s breathing was returning to normal. He placed both hands gently down on his thighs, laughing awkwardly. “You followed me here to check if I was okay?” Will was exasperated. This man could not stay away – would anybody ever just leave Will Graham be? “I was asking why you were here so early in the morning.”

Hannibal turned back to face Will, the harsh glow from the morning sun reflecting in the whites of his eyes. They looked calculating, like he had already envisioned this conversation and every possible outcome. When he spoke, it was candid and at a low volume. “You left last night in a rather stiff manner, and I had come to see if there was yet another sin I had committed. I wished you no discomfort, therefore I came to apologise and make things right.”

The cold sweat settled back on Will’s brow, and he kept glancing at the door. His escape route was right there, if only he could just find a place to run and hide.

“I thought it best to confront my faux pas as swiftly as possible, and had hoped that Father would be able to grant me another chance to confess my sins?”

_A savage desire tented his black trousers. The Father squirmed. Throwing the sheet aside he propelling himself off the bar stool._

_“I have to go,” he pushed past the doctor, making his way to the exit. “I shouldn’t be here.”_

Nodding his head, Hannibal pushed himself up from against the table and bent down on his haunches. He slid a hand over Will’s, and gave it a momentary squeeze. “Failing that, I came to request for your presence at dinner this weekend.”

Heat leeched into Will’s hand. He could feel it warming up the blood, causing his palms to sweat, and felt the heat being transported around his circulation – reaching every extremity, flooding him. It was overpowering. Will could not stand the feeling of human contact; normally, he would bat it away without even thinking.

But this time it was different.

This time, Father Will Graham craved that heat.

He lifted his unoccupied hand and placed it gingerly on top of Hannibal’s. It shook as he lifted it, unsure of his current standing in the eyes of this curious blond man, but he was confident it would be understood.

A momentary flash of white behind a crooked smile and Will was once more being swathed in Hannibal’s heat. Will closed his eyes; their foreheads touching gently, and lost himself in a sweet kiss.

Will had never experienced such tenderness. He knew affairs of the heart could be messy and foolish, but never had he known them to be like this. The gentle caress of Hannibal’s thumb stroking Will’s, an enchanting snare.A wave of happiness washed over the priest, and he strained his neck as he pushed closer down towards Hannibal.  

Dr Lecter licked his lips. He pulled away from Will, who frowned from the loss of contact. His lip twitched.

Hannibal slid his free hand up Will's thigh, clutching firmly. He reached Will's crotch, padding it gently with a thumb, outlining the curious heat underneath the dark cassock. 

Kneeling on the ground, he bent forward and nudged at it with his nose, giving Will a fright. Will yanked away his hands and tangled them in Hannibal's smooth hair, trying to pull him away. Trying, but not really  _trying_. 

Graham tilted his head back, exposing his throat. He rested his hands around Hannibal's head, which was still appreciating the comfort of Will's lap. The Father felt the intake of breath through Hannibal's nose; smelling him. Will was too caught up in the pleasure to think. 

He pulled Hannibal to his feet, roughly grasping his hair and pulling at the roots. Will followed him up, standing straight and close in Hannibal's personal space. They ground their crotches together, pressing heat against heat. Will was still holding on to Hannibal's hair. Dr Lecter grabbed on to the Father's behind, thrusting minutely against Will. Rutting against each other.

His mouth once again met Will's in a passionate kiss; needy and hot. 

Will started to unhook his white collar, but Hannibal stopped him. "No, keep that on." He asked, stroking Will's cheek. Will nodded, silently. 

Hannibal turned him on his feet, pushing him forward and pressing the hard wood of his desk into Will's hipbones. Hannibal grasped the sides of the black cassock and swiftly yanked it up, popping some of the buttons and exposing the black slacks underneath. He pulled it all the way above Father Graham's waist, folding it slightly to prevent it from falling back down. He gestured Will to hold on to the other side of the desk, and Will did so. Bending forward, he bared his clothed backside. 

Before Will could register it, his slacks were tugged away and settled messily around his ankles, restricting movement. A cool breeze whipped across his exposed legs. Hannibal licked his lips. The Father was wearing tight black underwear, outlining Will with great definition. Hannibal ran his hands across them, garnering another shiver from the man lying on the table. He lightly pinched one cheek and the man jumped. 

Hannibal slid his fingers down underneath the elastic waistband of the black shorts, gradually pulling them down Will’s thighs. He stopped when he reached the Father’s knees; the elastic snapped back to its form and restricted Will’s legs – which were spread.

Lust arose in Will, pumping through his veins and sending out sensations causing a twitch in his groin. Hannibal leaned against Will’s back, pushing Will’s erection into the wooden desk. The pressure sent tingles down his spine.

“As far as the east is from the west, so has he removed our transgressions from us.”  

Hannibal slid his hands down Will’s arms, and moved Will’s hands so that they were curled over the far side of the desk. “Keep them there.” Father Graham nodded.

Hannibal bent down to his knees. He spread Will’s cheeks and breached Will with his tongue.

Hannibal moved softly, caressing his partner. Pulses flitted all over Will, stars expanding and passing their energy out through his veins.

Hannibal knelt down further. He moved forward, nipping at Will. The Father was beginning to come undone above him. “Hannibal! H-Hanniba—!” He squirmed from the contact, knees shaking. Will was straining against the wooden desk.

Reaching into his blazer pocket, Hannibal withdrew a small bottle. The sound of a zipper being pulled down hit Will deep in the gut. He began to pray for forgiveness, but was interrupted by Hannibal firmly grabbing him.

Hannibal stroked once, twice, languidly. Will felt a warm pressure pushing up from under him, but not where he expected it. Hannibal was rubbing himself  _underneath_ Will, Hannibal pressing along Will’s perineum, rubbing up against Will. Sliding backwards and forwards, slowly, searing Will with his heat. Marking him.

The doctor built up friction and speed. Hannibal could feel the arousal deep in his stomach, uncoiling and releasing a radiating warmth, he let out a snarl. It had been a long time  and he was  _painfully_ hard. He enjoyed the feeling of a writhing body between his calloused hands.

Will could feel himself nearing something. He was about to be pushed over the edge of a tall cliff, and he hoped for it to happen soon. A pool of warmth curled in the pit of his stomach, and Will grunted with each thrust. Hannibal wrapped his hand round both men, and thrust faster. The pressure of Hannibal’s grasp caused Will to tumble over the edge, and he climaxed across the surface of the dark wooden desk in front of them. It left a stark stain on the polished surface. Will saw stars spread across his blurry vision, bursting and fragmenting in slivers of light.

Hannibal rode Will’s climax, pumping faster and faster, bending Will down over the table top. Hannibal pushed Will’s face into the dark wood. He came hard and splashed Will’s black shoes with drops of ashen white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this fic with something of Victorian ideals in mind, and that sort of transformed into something slightly more debased. I tried to be vague about the setting so you can imagine this happens in like the 1920s or it's present day or whatever you fancy. 
> 
> Kind of praying this chapter posts fine because I've had so many issues with it - most of all my beta giving me a dramatic reading of it to point out all the bits I needed to make changes to....


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In your anger do not sin. Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold." - Ephesians 4:26-27

Father Graham spent the rest of the day in a state of heightened anxiety, hyper-aware of every whisper in the hall. He had tried hard to shine up his shoes again, but in his mind there were still white smears on the black leather. Every time he glanced down Will was reminded of his indiscretion.    
  
It was not something the church would take lightly. If it were discovered that Will had engaged in an extramarital sexual relationship with someone whilst serving under the cloth, he would be disrobed. Further still, if it were to be disclosed that the relations were with another _man_ the shame would be nearly tenfold.   
  
Will sat hunched over in a pew in the central hall of the church. The police were finishing up their investigation, having decided that there was little evidence to be found. They knew something wasn't right, and Will was being irrationally deceitful, but they couldn't find anything concrete to hold against him. There was no proof. Will laughed desperately, imagining a life strewn with endless corpses and no satisfying conclusion. How dreadful that must be for the policemen. His empathy would destroy him.   
  
Two or three of the officers were still plodding around, patrolling the crime scene until it could be released back to the church. It was a bit of an inconvenience, and Will had had to cancel the service for the day, but he was certain the people would understand. As he turned them all away from the doors, he sensed a fear ripple through the crowd. No evidence had shown up suggesting any of the missing girls had been harmed. Not until now.   
  
The Father sighed and clasped his hands together. This was the second time he was asking for forgiveness, and he felt like _this_ time it was inexcusable. Will's faith was waning, and he could sense a fair few more sleepless nights on the horizon.   
  
Asking for forgiveness would have been enough, normally, for Will. He believed that all sinners could be redeemed, and salvation could be sought by all. The crux of the matter was, however, that Will did not truly feel repentant of his sins.   
  
Father Will Graham wished to commit that sin again.   
  
There was a ruckus at the front door, and Will could hear a female voice getting louder and louder as she pushed her way past the police barricade. He jumped to his feet.   
  
"I need to see!" Abigail screeched, running past pews and dodging the policemen trying to grab for her. One of them almost wrestled her to the floor but her wiry figure gave him the slip and the poor man was left winded on the ground.   
  
She ran full pelt towards the end of the hall, but was blocked by the two - formerly sedentary - policemen that had been manning the cordoned area. Will rushed to offer his assistance.   
  
"My child, please calm down. Come, sit with me and leave these gentlemen be." Will ushered her away from the burly gents, who were now scowling at them rather harshly. They sat down at the farthest end of the pew, his hand resting sweetly on Abigail's arm. Noticing this, he felt uncomfortable and went to remove his arm, but Abigail reached out for his hand and snatched it in between her own. Her palms were clammy and trembling around the Father's calloused hand.   
  
"I h-heard that they found C-Cassie..." Abigail murmured, lowering her head on Will's shoulder. "I had to come see for myself." Father Graham could not bring himself to offer words of condolence, and so he merely sat beside Abigail. He hoped that his presence was comfort enough.   
  
They sat like that for a while, Will lost in anguish over the girl beside him. He could not help but feel for her. She was suffering a great loss and Will deemed it wise not to intrude upon that. If his shoulder were all he could offer up to her, then that is what he would do.

She shuddered and whispered, "They think you did it, you know." 

"Did what?"  

"Killed Cassie. And... Took the other girls." She sniffled.  

Will stared at Abigail, shocked into silence.

He couldn't respond;  _didn't_  respond. Searching for a rebuttal and failing, Will grasped for something tangible he could proclaim. Him? A suspect? Vexing though this was, Father Graham sought deeply for an acceptable reply to the girl's allegations. Will felt a hollow pit burning deep in his gut as he scrambled to deny it, but his words fell short as he considered the previous day. He had lost time. Almost an entire day gone and no recollection of what he had done.

He started and stopped a few times, before finally managing to mumble, "I am merely the Lord's servant. I have no desire to fall circumvent to nor deceive the law, and should the good patrons of this town wish to place me under scrutiny then I shall open my doors to them."  

The church door once again swung open abruptly, followed by a lanky, tall man in a leather jacket and a thick scarf wrapped around a scrawny neck. He looked about, and upon finding his target proceeded to walk towards Will, pointing his finger accusingly. "It was you, wasn't it?! You're the reason my sister is dead!"

Abigail was perched on the edge of the pew, her pale hands gripped tightly around the curved edge of the seat. The girl swallowed her fright and stood upright suddenly, stiffening her posture and wiping away the brimming tears. 

"Leave him alone, Nick, it wasn't his fault," Abigail defended. 

"They told me she was found right in your church," Nicholas Boyle yelled. His eyes were wide and his voice was hoarse, Will figured that the man had been up for hours with grief and he had evidently chosen Will as the sole recipient on which to release it. "Why did she have to die?!" He spat, "what kind of sicko are you?! She had so much to live for!"

Poisonous words lingered in the space between them, saturating the air with a toxic cloud of spite.

“I am sorry that you feel this way, however I would ask of you to please remove yourself from these halls. If you wish to discuss this further I implore you to take it up with the detectives over there.” Will pointed behind Boyle, and the surly policemen plodding back and forth in front of the cordon turned their heads, red-faced and clamped teeth on show; still seething from their failed attempt to stop the man from busting into the church in the first place. They looked quite ready to throw the man out on the street.

The two men surged forwards and began to drag Nick towards the entrance, his heels scraping for purchase on the old stone  floor. He tried to free himself, squirming and kicking, with no success. “It  _was_ you, wasn’t it?! You can’t cover this up, you know! I won’t let you.” Nicholas Boyle hissed at Father Graham, spitting at his feet as he was dragged away.

“You’ll rot in Hell for this!”

\------------

Finishing off planning out his schedule for the next day and getting ready to close the church for the night, Will walked back into the main hall and was not surprised to discover Hannibal seated at one of the pews in the far corner. He was looking directly at the neon eyesore cordoning the first few rows, hunched forwards and hands pressed together against his pursed lips.

“They told me it would be fine to remove the tape when they wrapped up their investigation a few hours ago, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it yet.” Will wandered towards Dr Lecter. Will had rehearsed an entire soliloquy in preparation for this moment, but the second his eyes fell on that dimly-lit profile, Will’s entire speech fragmented and blew away. “There appeared to be no trace evidence left behind, and so they released the scene back to me. I don’t know how I am going to be able to preach my next sermon with the knowledge that a girl lost her life right on that bench in front of my altar.” Will had been worried that talking to Hannibal again would become awkward. Instead, Hannibal appeared to be deep in thought. It eased Will’s nerves to see the doctor pensive, contemplating something  _other_ _than_ the priest.

“I, uhm, if you don’t mind I was about to close up the church. Keep coming this late and I might have to rethink my opening hours.” Will laughed awkwardly, hoping that he wasn’t going to be the only participant in the conversation. It was starting to feel a little one-sided.

The white of Hannibal’s teeth glinted in the dull glow of the church candles. “I came to ask you if you would offer me companionship for dinner this evening.”

\------------

A grand supper lay before Will; a spread the likes of which he had not seen in a very long time. The gilded  _bain marie_ was full to bursting, and the silverware was polished to a divine sheen.

Father Graham noted the great deal of planning that must have gone into this dinner. He wasn't sure if he were to be grateful that he had been invited into such a plan, or if perhaps this dinner had been planned around the guest. A succulent dish of lamb lay just beyond the rim of his plate, and he snickered a little. A white flag of peace, perhaps. An offering. The glasses were brimming with a dark wine from some part of Italy that rolled off Hannibal's tongue so well that Will now struggled to remember the province; he was distracted by watching his lips as they caressed the consonants. 

Will felt a little out of place - he should have been wearing a sharp suit, or at the very least his Sunday best - but he had come straight from the church and was merely in his everyday cassock. Fingering the prongs of his fork, he worked away a speck of dirt that he  _knew_  was all in his imagination. The pristine setting that lay neatly before him all but screamed 'anally retentive' and there was no conceivable chance that Hannibal would not notice dirty cutlery. 

_"Rôti d'agneau, au miel et amandes,"_ Hannibal said, placing a tray of golden sautéed potatoes next to Will before sitting down himself. They were sat at one end of a dark wooden table which could easily be - and most likely was - used frequently for dinner parties of the gentlemen of the landed gentry. Will was thankful he had been invited to dine alone with the chef, lessening his chances of being the 10th little sailor boy. After all the recent disturbances, the priest didn't fancy his chances much - as the resident priest and social pariah of Wolf Trap, Will placed himself quite high on the 'most likely to die tragically as in an Agatha Christie novel' list. 

Hannibal gestured to the dishes on the table, inviting Will to begin. Will gratefully helped himself to something from each plate – feeling it would be rude to refuse otherwise. The fragrant smell of honeyed duck wafted round the room. After a few mouthfuls, Will steeled himself. If he didn’t discuss this now, the guilt would eat him raw. 

Father Graham looked around the fantastic room. It was gilded with bouquets, warm lighting and baroque art in dull frames. To his right were a pair of closed French doors, but Will was more curious about the tableau spread before him. Candles littered across many surfaces. 

"This lamb is fantastic. How long were you slaving away at this?" Will lifted another forkful to his mouth. "I would've accepted a simpler meal, one that I could pronounce without butchering a language," he shrugged to himself. “I’m easy to please.” 

"I enjoy creating dishes for those who I deem deserving of such a feast. You, Father, would be a pleasure to serve at my table."   
  
Will squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Hannibal's eyes were hooded from the lack of light in the room. The candles cast flickering shadows across his cheeks, flames emitting a harsh orange glow. Will saw the fires of Hell burning in Hannibal’s eyes.

"I feel like… I think we should talk about yesterday. It should not have happened, I was in need of companionship and it—”

“Why? You are only human, after all, and as social creatures we often crave such an intimacy. It is in our nature and, as it happens, I am perfectly happy to indulge such a lascivious appetite.” Hannibal dabbed the corners of his sly grin with a napkin. “Father, I am fascinated by you.”

Will’s cheeks flushed, he didn’t know how to respond. Avoiding the matter entirely, he transitioned into a different conversation. “So, uhm, after the news of that girl in the church, do you think there’s any hope for the other missing girls?” He swallowed a few small roast potatoes, and starting worrying his knife and fork at the lamb.

Hannibal clocked Will’s divergence, but made no attempt to call him out on it. “Many of my patients have been expressing concerns for their own personal safety, and I must admit I myself had not thought much about the situation. I was led to believe most of the girls were perhaps trying to leave Wolf Trap of their own volition?” He helped himself to another serving of snap beans, pushing more onto Will’s plate at the same time.

“No, none of them have contacted anybody in town since their disappearance, and nobody has reappeared either. The first was Cassie in the church today, though many more have gone missing. I fear for the girls and their families, but I am at a loss as to how to console the townsfolk. I feel hopeless about the whole thing, and some of the parishioners are starting to refrain from coming to Sunday service.”

“Why?” 

Will put down his fork, unsure if he should mention it or not. He relented, “Almost all of the missing girls were patrons of my church.” 

Hannibal lowered his cutlery, and placed them with a gentle ‘clack’ on his plate.  

"Ahh," Hannibal sniffed, and looked at Will. "Do you believe that to be relevant?" 

"Well, I mean, it's hard not to think it's something significant. Nothing else seemed to connect them, and nobody else has gone missing."

"Are you sure?" Will couldn't tell if he was beginning to suffocate from being in such a foreign setting for so long, or if the room was closing in on him. He looked at Hannibal but all he saw was a dark smog clouding his vision. 

"W-what do you mean? The police said that only--"

"Only the girls have been reported missing. Perhaps they have missed a few clues; some who were not noted missing, some who had no one to miss them. Who is to say?" Hannibal wiped up a splash of sauce that had dripped from a dish on to the oak dining room table. "Perhaps now is a good time for desert." 

Father Graham would have been happy to continue eating to the very last drop – waste not, want not - but if his host was wanting to clear the dishes away he would not protest. " _Tarte tatin_ , with a brandy cream," Hannibal came back in with a golden fruity tart drizzled in a white sauce, and set a plate down before Will. 

"You know, I collect church collapses, recreationally. Did you see the recent one, in Sicily? It was marvellous." Hannibal chuckled a little, his voice filling up the room. It was starting to become difficult to tell if he was projecting it or if Will had instead been sucked into his fable. "The facade fell on sixty-five grandmothers at a special mass. Was that evil? If so, who did it? If he's up there, he just loves it, Father. This is perhaps just another restitution."

Hannibal scooped up a spoonful of the tart, and Will poked at his tentatively. He was glad that the conversation had moved on from him personally, but he wasn't really sure where it was going now. The hairs on his arms stood upright, a chill running down his spine. 

Will saw red; his vision blurred in anger and sorrow. The doctor continued, "Perhaps it is all part of a grand scheme? Maybe God intended it so." How could this man be so heartless? People have lost their daughters, their friends. And this man had the audacity to suggest it was 'for the greater good'?! 

The sympathy he felt for the families however was mixed up with another emotion, a more basal, carnal fervour. In his mind he could still see the face of the young girl he found - but she was more than that. She was being bled, involuntarily letting her life ebb away, surrounded by the sickening squelches and hiccups of her last few agonising breaths. Hung from the rafters. Again Will considered the time he had lost, his hazy memories still just out of reach. Were these the actions he had blocked out? Why else would they be in his head...? 

"After all, killing must feel good to God. He does it all the time. Are we not created in His image?"

“Tasteless,” Will whispered, blood rushing to his face.   

“Do you have trouble with taste?” Hannibal asked, his thick accent rolling around the question. 

Will gritted his teeth, and replied; “my thoughts are often not tasty.” He pushed his chair back, ready to make his exit. "I think it would be best if I left, now." Will leaned his hands on the dining table, dessert forgotten.

"Wouldn't want you to lose your head," Hannibal's slimy grin was dripping with charm, but still Will could not bring himself to depart from the man's company. Every bell in his mind was screaming at him to run, and yet he stood firm, feet unwilling to move. The pads of his fingers danced over the table, tracing the raised knots in the wood. 

Will cleared his throat, not trusting himself to speak but needing to do something _, anything,_ to pick his feet off the ground. "May I have my coat, please?" The Father had intended it to be a statement. 

Hannibal pursed his lips and walked to the cloakroom in the hallway. He brought Will his long dark tail coat, and gestured bluntly. Hannibal helped Will into the arms, hands lingering on the shoulders. He smoothed out the folds that found their way into the fabric. It was only a light touch, but the warmth spread all the way down Will's spine. 

Hannibal breathed in deep, tasting the air surrounding Will. He smelled musky, like a well-worn overcoat found in the back of a cloakroom. Hannibal made a mental note to drop hints about investing in a nicer aftershave; Will smelled stale and wet.

He patted down the rough arms of the Father’s jacket once more and grinned pleasantly, feeling the ripples of tendons tensing under his fingers. 

"I will see you again soon, dear Father."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the comments I've received so far are beautiful, I wasn't expecting to get such a positive response to this so thank you all for continuing to read this!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But I am afraid that as the serpent deceived Eve by his cunning, your thoughts will be led astray from a sincere and pure devotion to Christ." - 2 Corinthians, 11:3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to upload this week but today we sat down, edited drunk, and now I have a headache and this chapter to show for it. If anybody notices mistakes let me know, I think the second bottle of wine really got to us. 
> 
> I hope everybody was as content with the finale as I was. Group hug.

The next few days waned on Will's patience. The police showed up again, asking the same questions  and expecting better answers than he had given them originally. Most likely they were hoping for something incriminating, but Will was loath to say anything more. He still couldn't shirk the feeling that there was something buried in his memories, but it was so far deep in his subconscious and didn’t seem like it would see the light of day any time soon. Not without the right provocation. 

When Chief Crawford showed up at the end of the week, repeating the same questions asked by the constables previously, it was the last straw.  

"Why do you keep coming back here? Have you not discovered all there is to find?" Will was getting more and more frustrated. The police were causing disruptions to both his sermons and his preparations, and the Father could stand by it no longer. 

"I feel like you're not being honest with me. You're hiding something, Father, and I would appreciate it if you told me what it was." 

"I  _have_  told you, I don't know anything at all about these missing girls. The moment I discovered the body, I called the police. I do not appreciate being inundated with your suppositions." Will quelled his rage, and slid his hands into his pockets. He worried one of the beads on the rosary that was tucked away there safely. It calmed him down a little, but still Crawford dogged him. They walked further into the church, shuffling past the pews and the scattered visitors. The dull daylight filtered in through the thick stained glass.

"Did somebody confess to you? Is that it? I don't care about the holy sacrament, or whatever oaths it is that you live by - if somebody told you about a murder you better give me your goddamn confession." Crawford raised his voice. The priest bristled, the disturbance causing a few turned heads.

Will stiffened at the profanity. Jack wore a sour expression and glared at him before putting on his hat and storming out of the chapel. 

It wasn’t a conversation Will wished to linger on, so the Father continued his daily business. He tended to some menial housekeeping tasks, things he had been pushing off to the side for weeks now. Every now and again he would find himself staring off into space. After having taken up his full time residency in Wolf Trap, each day seemed to bring more dismal news than the last and they began to pass without comment; one merging into the next.

He looked out into the church grounds and his heart beat a little faster. He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but it left him with a sense of disquietude. The churchyard left a bitter uneasiness in Will’s gut; each tombstone poking out of its own small patch of land a baseless reminder of the death that had unexpectedly befallen his hallowed hall.

\------------

When Will arrived at church the following Sunday, he was struck speechless by the front gate. Somebody had struck in the early hours of the morning, the word “MURDERER” scrawled across the front entrance and “PEDOPHILE” across a window. The red spray paint was still tacky to the touch. A muscle in his jaw twinged and Will clenched his fists. Father Graham was almost ready to pray for a divine intervention. He didn’t think he was going to survive like this much longer, his spirit gnawed raw.

Will was losing his faith.

It didn’t matter that the police had moved off him as a suspect – someone in Wolf Trap was still quite adamant about his alleged involvement in the kidnapping and murder charges. If something didn’t change soon, the priest worried there would be an angry mob knocking on his door with pitchforks and torches. And yet, there was a shadow over the Father’s heart. Guilt pulled at him, and he knew that if the mob did indeed present themselves he would welcome their embrace. 

A dark winter storm was rolling in, the clouds giving the church an oppressive atmosphere. The downhearted brunet squinted at them, practically  _daring_ God to piss on him.

Will didn’t have enough time to deal with the paint before church began, so instead he left the doors and windows ajar to draw less attention to the articulate threat. He sent a message for Chief Crawford, who was having an equally terrible time of it. Will may have been inconvenienced by things like rocks through the windows and trampled flowerbeds, but Jack’s reputation was being dragged through a much more public forum. Every day the local newspaper reported on yet another of his seemingly innumerable failings as head of his branch of local law enforcement.  

Admittedly, jarring open the windows of a draughty building in the dead of winter  _wasn't_  an inspired idea, and Will made a decision to rush through his sermon when he noticed some of the congregation visibly shaking under their lined winter coats. 

The priest noticed Abigail had given herself a wide berth from her parents, and instead she was sitting beside a familiar face. Hannibal Lecter was perched on the same pew, gazing directly at Will, who then promptly spent the rest of the hour trying to avoid Hannibal's stare. It was nice, however, to look up and see someone paying such astute attention to his sermon, and Father Graham found himself staring back more than he intended. Sharp eyes trained on the Father, unwavering. Will tried to weave a tale that would reassure his parishioners. "5: 7; 'We live by faith, not by sight.'" He read aloud from the book of Corinthians, fumbling over the worn and worried pages. 

"I do not wish to be the cause of any grief, nor do I wish to linger on any fears in regards to myself and what some of you may think of me. For those of you who have a lesser opinion of me, I invite you to recalibrate your scruples.

"I believe that the Lord is the only true Judge. If one acts untoward, it is but God whom can provide a sound judgement. 'We live by faith,' a bold statement, true. Those of us who strive to reach out to God know that living by faith is often wrought with trials. Loss of self, loss of will; in times like these living by faith is a challenge. But it is in this challenge that we find _ourselves."_

Will clasped his hands together, echoing a sentiment seen by many on street corners and at bus stops. The sight indicated prayer; a silent promise. "We must not live by sight. Living by sight is easy. Living life this way would be  _easier_ , one supposes. But is the easy path the right path? When we look at the two paths in the forest, do we take the path that appears the easiest, or the more fulfilling challenge?"

"I leave you with a final verse from Corinthians."

Will closed the bible he had placed neatly on top of the pulpit. His sermon was drawing to a close. He noticed Hannibal wrapping a warm brown scarf around his neck, and found himself wondering if Hannibal would leave without saying hello. He wondered when he had begun to wonder so much.

"'Be on your guard, stand firm in the faith; be men of courage; be strong.' 16: 13." 

\------------

After the sermon had let out and the majority of the congregation had left, Will found Hannibal standing by the pew where Cassie’s body had been found. The winter sun had come out again and was casting an odd shadow, seeming as if Hannibal had a long tail dancing across the stone floor. Will made a note to close all the windows again before he caught hypothermia. 

"That was an interesting narration, dear Father. A bold choice, I noticed." Hannibal smirked his haughty smirk, disdain evident on his face as he glared at the sullied pew.

"Which part are you referring to?" Will replied, hoping it sounded more earnest than he felt.

"Like a politician attempting to salvage his candidacy, you addressed the issues that were cause for concern. And yet..." Hannibal looked up at Father Graham, a twinkle in his dark eyes, "it is perhaps good fortune that you were gifted with the art of diction. Essentially, you told your patrons that you acknowledge some of them suspect you of murder, and you then failed to deny it outright. Thus, a bold choice; it was wrapped up in your sermon so nicely that I imagine most people will walk away and not think to question it." 

" _Most_  people?" Will rubbed the back of his neck, trying to massage a kink that he just could not relieve. 

That low chuckle again. "In my business you have to learn how to read between the lines, hear what people do _not_  say." Dr Lecter glanced to the side, watching Will rub his neck. "Would you like me to look at that for you?" He offered. 

Father Graham considered it for a minute. He wouldn't normally ask for help from a friend, but Dr Lecter was a doctor. He had a medical degree… Right? Will realised that he hadn’t actually ever asked anything personal of man. The knot had practically taken up permanent residence in his neck ever since Will had begun to preach in Wolf Trap.

And when had Will started referring to Hannibal as his friend?

Nodding his head a little, Will gestured to the doctor, waving his hand towards the small corridor branching off from the side of the hall. Will's office was a mess and something told him that, though Hannibal would not comment on it, he would most definitely throw his nose in the air. So he walked instead towards one of the communal rooms that Sunday school was often held in. The chaplaincy had elected to put Sunday school on an indefinite hold after the first few girls had gone missing - mostly because there weren't enough parents volunteering to oversee the children and Will couldn't do it alone. 

Making light conversation, Hannibal spoke softly. "After all that has happened, Father, I thought you would perhaps be more concerned for your safety. But here I find you, quite literally with your doors wide open." Hannibal tilted his head, his eyes running along the stone walls of the church.

"Dr Lecter, could it be that you fear for my wellbeing?" Will scoffed. 

"Would that be so hard to believe? I care very much about you, dear Will," Hannibal countered, turning to face Will. The words rolled off his tongue, audaciously direct, and ran straight to Will’s groin. Father Graham could feel a near-palpable silence drawing out before him, but he couldn't find the words to reply. He was getting hot under the collar and a blush rose up his neck, hidden mostly by his rough stubble. Father Graham scratched his jaw, attempting to nervously shoo away the ever-darkening hue and coughed gently. 

"I'm sure I'll be fine, Dr Lecter." Will shuffled further down the corridor. 

"How can you be so sure?" 

"Where I grew up, if a man didn't learn how to shoot straight he didn't keep his valuables very long." Will smirked. He thought of the town he grew up in, the cocked guns his father kept in the front hall. Distracted by his memories, Will failed to hear Hannibal's breath hitch. 

Dr Lecter tried to contain it, but the image of Will curled up in a hide, his breathing and his heartbeat working in harmony, well, it was safe to say that Hannibal's interest was aroused. 

And it wasn't the only thing. 

"I never would have thought a man of the cloth would have a history of sharpshooting," Hannibal said, readjusting his tie. He muttered under his breath, "Would you be able to pull the trigger, should it come to that, I wonder?" 

Will wondered if he had missed something important, but chose instead to just move on and hope it was nothing. The Father had a history of ignoring his problems, why stop now? He opened the door to the small recreation room. 

The tables were aligned in a U-shape around the room, a few plastic chairs stacked haphazardly in the corners. They walked into the centre of the room. Hannibal waved at Will to stand still. He couldn't help but tense his shoulders, contrary to the relaxation he was  _trying_  to effect. Dr Lecter raised his hands in a 'surrender' wave, and Will let his shoulders slip a little. He breathed out shakily, noticing for the first time how knotted his body had become. Hannibal stepped around Will, gently lifting his hands above Will's shoulders. The heat radiating off Dr Lecter's unerring hands could be felt through the coarse fabric of Will's cassock. Hannibal hadn't even laid his hands down yet, just hovering above him.

Will closed his eyes as Hannibal curled his hands around Will's shoulders. At first, he just gently massaged Will's back with his thumbs - rubbing small circles into the base of his neck. Father Graham could melted into the touch; his muscles started to unwind and he rolled his head back a little. He let out a satisfied sigh. 

Will was content. 

As Hannibal worked his way along Will's shoulders, he murmured in Will's ear; "this would be more effective if we just...." He reached round in front of Will and undid the top button of his cassock. A gasp hitched itself in Will's throat.

A flush of arousal passed across Will’s face and he let out a small huff.

There was a discrete 'click' as Hannibal pulled the collar from its studs, and Will let out a few shallow breaths. "There we go. If you wouldn't mind just holding on to this for me. We wouldn't want it getting in the way, now." 

Father Graham started to turn, lifting a hand to grab the collar before a strong hand held Will's face and he halted in his tracks; Will’s chin supported by a large firm palm. The pressure from the thumb and the fingers on either cheek forced Will's mouth open, just wide enough for Hannibal to slip the collar between Will's teeth. Hannibal lifted his other hand and gently pushed down on Will's head forcing Will to bite down on the thin piece of flimsy plastic. Father Graham's mind went blank, he couldn't process what was going on. A sharp prickle of apprehension rushed through his body, and pooled somewhere in the depths of his gut. 

The lack of protestations from Will sent a current down Hannibal's spine. He shuddered, overcome with a surge of power. Hannibal untied his tie, and draped the silk slowly around Will's tense hands, pulling them behind his back. Leaning forward, he groaned in the Father's ear. 

"I may be many things, but I am a man of my word. If you wish me to stop, repeat the word, 'thurible', understand?" 

Will nodded slowly, drawing attention away from his ever-warming groin. His mind was clouded over with something dark, ebbing into his consciousness. The stress from the investigation was dragging him down, and this was like the first breath of air after being submerged for too long. His lungs ached with the promise of a release from the Hell Will felt like he was flooded by.

Hannibal grasped Will’s hair and shoved him forward against one of the desks. Hannibal pulled off his fawn scarf and threw it on the table. He pushed down on the Father’s back, Will's chest flush against the smooth table top. He had to twist his neck to avoid smacking his nose and chin off it. Father Graham bit into the plastic collar. 

Dr Lecter inserted himself between Will's legs, pushing them apart. He was holding on to Will's hands which were tied neatly behind his back, his other hand pressing down on the back of Will's head. Hannibal carded his fingers through Will's curls, tugging just a little harder than pleasant. Hannibal leaned over and teased the Father's ear, sucking on it with a gentle purpose. Will expired sharply, the air whistling as it passed through his teeth. Though tied up, this was the most free the Father had felt in a while.

The blond man slid his hands down Will's sides, caressing the contours of his body. The fabric of the Father's cassock was scratchy and old, Hannibal found it rather unpleasant. Were they not in the middle of a church he would have much preferred Will to take it off, but that seemed like it would be hard to explain should they be stumbled across. He didn’t believe there was a higher power than Will in the church to cause a scene, but that didn't mean to say it wouldn't happen.

Precautions were always good to take where possible. 

He lazily dragged his hands around from Will's hips to his bottom. Will bucked at the touch, pushing himself back into Hannibal's grip. 

If a grin could be heard, Hannibal's was deafening. He squeezed, pushing up with his fingers and getting a good hold of the flesh. He was happy to take some liberties. He didn't know how far Will would let him take this, but if it stopped soon he wanted to have had at least some enjoyment from it. 

He stroked his thumbs up and down Will's waist, kneading the balls of his hands into Will. The Father writhed below him. Hannibal's thumbs grazed over a seam in the coarse material, and he discovered that the cassock had pockets tucked discretely away. Slipping his hands inside, he was surprised to find how deep they were. He gripped Will's thighs through the thin fabric and was rewarded with a rather husky moan. 

Hannibal rubbed his body against Will, vying for some friction release. His hands danced across Will's thighs from inside his pockets, until he felt the corner of something hard graze his knuckle. The Father leaned himself into the urge, pent up tension spilling out of his pores.  

Hannibal chuckled, a deep sonorous laugh that ran chills up and down Will's body. Will wasn’t sure how long his body could survive being so on edge; he wasn't even really sure what he was on the edge  _of,_ but Will knew he would fall headfirst if the man behind him pushed. 

"Hmm,” Hannibal’s smooth voice washed over Will, and the blood in Father Graham’s ears pounded. He pulled something out of the Father’s pocket. “This looks like it could perhaps prove useful." 

The Father craned his neck, trying to remember what he had kept in his pocket. He didn’t exactly have a handful of condoms tucked away in there. What was there; a pen? His Rosary? A...

Oh. 

Oh no. 

Hannibal unbuttoned the lower half of Will's cassock, exposing his legs. Will was grateful for his boxers which were at least keeping the cold out from the old building, but not for long. Hannibal yanked them down, the elastic band uncovering a massive heat. They rested around his ankles, and Will wasn't sure if stepping out of them would be a good idea or a terrible one. Leaving them snagged meant that, on the one hand he didn't have much range of voluntary movement, but on the other he could pull them up quickly if he needed to. 

The decision was made for him when Hannibal tapped his thigh, clicking his tongue twice like he was signalling a dog. Father Graham stepped hesitantly out of his shorts. 

Hannibal tutted softly in Will's ear, as he reached forward to palm the Father’s groin, "I am glad to see you seem to be enjoying yourself." Will grunted, as Hannibal stroked him roughly, once, twice. He was still gritting his teeth on the collar and breathing through his nose. Father Graham's knees began to buckle, and he was actually pleased to be half lying across a table. 

"I wonder, have you ever dreamed of this? Being taken in such a special place?" Hannibal smiled, absolutely full of himself. He knew Will could tell what was coming, and Hannibal wanted to make it as enjoyable as possible, for the both of them. 

"Have you ever done this before?" He asked. "Most pious men have never had intimate relations before joining the Church, in my experience." Hesitantly, Will nodded. The doctor faulted. He stopped short, unsure of how to process that admission. He had assumed Will would have played the part of the little choir boy, innocent to a fault and as Virgin as Mary. 

This was an interesting development indeed. Will Graham was becoming incredibly interesting.

"With another man?" Will shook his head violently, almost  _too_  vehemently. 

His hand was still between the Father’s legs, heat radiating through tender skin. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on Will's brow; the smell of the saccharine drops making Hannibal heady with lust. 

Dr Lecter pulled Will back from the table, etching the moment to his memory. There was a heat in the Father's eyes that fascinated him, drawing him in. 

A large hand grabbed Will's face, pulling them closer together. Hannibal pressed sweet kisses to his cheekbone, temple, the bridge of his nose. Claiming them. Will wouldn't admit it later but the sweetness in those gestures made his heart beat faster than anything else. He looked away, breaking eye contact.

"I understand you, Father. You blindly follow your faith, with empty words and emptier gestures. But I  _see_ . You would be better-off on broken knees; begging and praying until your blood runs dry. You would be happier now - your fate in my hands.”

Hannibal ran his hands lower, fingertips dancing across sweet pale skin, bringing Will’s attention back to him. He lifted the Rosary, like a forewarning, before lowering it.

He wrapped the beads around Will, encircling his virility; once, twice, three times. He pulled the chain tight. Each bead dug into Will’s tender skin, pressing into him leaving the Father with a feeling of slight discomfort.  

He leaned into the touch.

Will sucked in a shaky breath, as he felt the tension in his body rise. Hannibal pulled it again, and Will slammed himself into the table from the shock. He was leaking a little, staining his clothes.

Father Graham jolted again, nerves frayed to hell and back, when he felt a heat probing at. His blood ran cold; cheeks spread apart by soft hands. Hannibal seared Will with the heat of his tongue, and Will didn’t know what to do. He felt like he should be doing  _something_ , rather than just standing there as Hannibal pleasured him. On the other hand, Will was grateful for the attention. It had been ages since he had last touched himself, and even longer still since he was touched by another.

The long nights in the stony confines of his office were harsh on Will, and he had recently found himself more frustrated than ever. Trying to lift his mood to no avail, he could never bring himself to climax.

How this man before him was succeeding where he failed he would never understand, but he appreciated it.

“Hhrrg… H-hannithhaa” Will whispered, still holding on to the plastic collar. Tempted to drop it, he knew that there would be consequences – but the Father could not decide if he wanted to find out what they would be or not.

His chest was rising and falling rapidly, sucking in all the air he could through his clenched jaw.

As suddenly as Will had registered the tongue, it left again. Before he could turn to see what Hannibal was doing, he felt another intrusion – this one was much stiffer and much less warm. Father Graham felt himself perk up even further; he didn’t think it was possible at this point.

Will was painfully hard.

He felt the slow burn of something breaching him. A few seconds later, the beads around his balls pulled with an unyielding tightness. The realisation didn’t really dawn on him until he felt the hilt of the cross rest against him, and would fit no further.

“I’m impressed. I didn’t think you would actually stand to relinquish this much control.” Hannibal twisted the cross, the sharp edges of the shaft rubbing Will’s insides. He could feel the crossbar pressing into his perineum.

Will quivered.

Hannibal ran his thumb over the Will’s tip, swiped at it, bringing it up and smearing it across Father Graham’s cheek.

He took the collar from Will’s mouth and kissed him hard, saliva dribbling out of Will’s mouth. Dropping it to the ground, he reached around and untied Will’s hands.

Shoving backwards and squeezing past the desks, Will grasped Hannibal’s shirt, bunching it up in tightly balled fists. He pulled them both backwards, his body hitting the wall. The force rattled around the room, metal chair legs shuddering and the door handle clattering. Will paused for a moment, thinking that someone was about to catch them – Dr Lecter seized the opportunity and bucked Will’s head back, slamming it against the wall. He kissed Will’s neck, sucking a bruise into stretched flesh.

Hannibal snared his hands in Will’s dark curls, kissing him on the mouth harder and harder. Will fumbled around Hannibal’s waist, grasping for a zipper. He found purchase on the tight trousers, slipped his hand into Hannibal’s briefs.

Will shuddered into Hannibal’s mouth. He tugged at Hannibal’s erection, stroking it harder. The blond man moved a hand to his coat pocket and pulled out a condom and a small bottle of lube. Will only registered this briefly, impressed and yet slightly frustrated that Hannibal had seemingly orchestrated things exactly as he was expecting to. He shrugged this off as the Rosary was removed quickly, with a slight yelp from Will and a louder growl from Hannibal.

Tossing the Rosary to the floor, the condom packet and empty bottle followed with a clatter.

Hannibal had slicked himself up, and guided himself towards Will, lifting the priest’s thigh up. Father Graham pulled Hannibal close, wrapping his arms across his broad, surprisingly muscled back. He rested his forehead on Hannibal’s shoulder, nuzzling into his lapels.

The smell of sex and sweat made Will lightheaded, his legs shaking under the exertion. Hannibal reached between their writhing bodies and pulled once more at Will. A few strokes later, Will threw his head back releasing in spurts across the inside of his cassock; a few drops spilling on the ground and a few dappling Hannibal’s well-polished Oxfords.

Hannibal continued thrusting into Will, his chest heaving. Hannibal’s strength was the only reason Will was still standing upright, his legs beyond jelly. Hannibal leaned in for another kiss, and Will let him. He pulled away after feeling a sharp piercing nip to his lower lip, ferrous blood coating his tongue.

Hannibal shuddered through his climax, pulling out and dropping Will to his knees. He tucked himself back into his slim fit suit pants, discarding the condom in the bin by the door.

About to leave, he looked back to find Will dazed and slumped on the ground. His wiry hair was matted, the curls clinging to his sweat-caked forehead, shoulders heaving. The doctor stepped back towards him, lifting Will’s chin high.

“You know, with all my knowledge and intuition I could never entirely predict you. I can feed the caterpillar, I can whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light." - 2 Corinthians 11:14

Buds were beginning to appear on the trees that once wept over the churchyard. The bitter frost of winter had left, and instead a mild drizzle settled in.

He woke with a start. Looking around, Will was reassured to find himself in his own home; canines curled by the foot of his bed and the dogged shadows under his eyes, a perceptible reminder of his weary nights. The moon was still shining bright through an old window on the far side of his bedroom.

The sleep crusted his eyes more so this morning than most, but Father Graham paid it no heed. As of late he had given up on the hopes of a restful night, praying for a sleep which was not plagued by lifeless bodies and dark shadows in the corner of his eye. A darkness was seeping into Will Graham’s core, and he was too spent to fight it. He wondered for a moment if he should mention it to Hannibal. Perhaps he could offer some words of consolation.

When exactly had he started asking so much of Hannibal?

Rubbing away the grit, Will’s hallucinations surfaced in the foreground of his mind – terrors which ran rampant in the night now trickling into a bleary-eyed reality. Hooves knocked gently on cobbles, wings spread, soul upon soul lying prostrate before a dark figure; dripping. Will sensed pious desperation in the bodies that lay before him; each appeared to be pushing closer and closer to the ground, fingers gripping the chipped rocks earnestly. What were they bowing down to?

Floorboards creaked beneath Will as he stood. A gale blew hard and branches whipped the window panes, casting spindly shadows across the room. Startled, Will saw the contours of a stag-man – a haunting image that featured in his _bête noires_ for as long as he could remember. One of the dogs lying beside his slippers raised his head and barked; Will bent down to calm him. A change in the wind and the persona was gone, again.

The nightmare had left a sour taste in Will’s gut; though frequent, last night’s had been more vivid and detailed than any of the previous stupors. As he walked to church that morning, he wasn’t surprised to find himself falling in step with Hannibal. The last few months he had found that the man often joined him on his walk to work. It never occurred for him to ask why, nor where he appeared from. Lecter’s house was a long way from Will’s, and yet he appeared to wait patiently at the fork in the path on Will’s edge of town nearly every Sunday morning. After a while it had become the norm, and the two men strolled together, chatting idly.

This morning, Will could not shake a wicked foreboding. Mentioning it to Hannibal would be silly – of all the follies he had confessed to the man, Will did not want to add “ominous nightmares” to the list.

Hannibal let the Father choose the conversations, jumping in and out with questions and analyses when he saw fit. It wasn’t until they approached the gate that their conversations died.

The latch on the gate had been painted a sticky red, left unhooked and softly swung in the spring breeze.  A trail of blood smeared up the path. Will’s mouth agape, he looked to the entrance of the church with fear and apprehension.

The shock left Will convulsing in a fit of panic. He almost fell to his knees, reaching out an arm to grasp Hannibal for support. His legs tried to give way but the Father fought hard to stay upright. Little by little the past year had stripped his nerves raw, and now Will fell into a pit of anxiety. Words bubbled to the surface but he could not find his voice. A small whine escaped his throat; twitching fingers grasped Hannibal tightly.

Pale hands spotted with blood clawed at the entrance to the church, palms pressed flat against the old oak panels. Long dark hair was matted with thick coagulated blood, glistening in the muted daylight. Will almost fainted at the sight of gallons of blood, and as his eyes travelled up the mutilated body before him his stomach fell, further and further.

Large slices of skin had been stripped away, spinal cord exposed. Filleted muscles with jagged edges oozed dark blood which continued to pool around the victim. She was a young girl, stripped of her life in a terribly violent manner. Will suppressed a scream.

The girl’s back muscles had been pulled away from their mounts, and jutted out stiffly from her shoulders. The design was not lost on Will.

Someone had left an angel at his door; an angel on its knees trying to reach out to God.

\------------

Police presence had all but closed the church. Father Graham could not in good faith continue mass, and instead sent word to his parishioners that they would have to go elsewhere. It surprised him to see so many people show up, and was saddened to turn them away. The numbers had been dropping for months, and Will quietly wondered if this was a sign to close his doors for good and move on.

Jack Crawford was glaring at Will across the police cordon. It made Will’s skin crawl, like the man had some sort of personal vendetta against him. Will shifted awkwardly, not allowed to enter the church as it would interfere with the investigation. An image flashed into his head, Will being cuffed and arrested in front of his _sanctum sanctorum_. 

Hannibal was standing off to the side, surrounded by a group of concerned citizens and local reporters. His eyes bore holes into Will Graham. It turned his blood ice-cold.

A loud reporter was making her way to the front of the crowd, vying for a shot of either the gruesome scene or the likely perpetrator. Will still wasn’t trusted in the eyes of most of Wolf Trap, but the lack of evidence against him had left the townsfolk grasping at straws. Eventually, most of the parishioners had stopped haranguing him altogether. With this new discovery, the whispers would be sure to flare up again. She shoved a few people out of her way, but the mob merely pushed back and she was hidden from sight again.

Will knew her reputation, though. He slid his hands into his pockets and fumbled for his Rosary, hanging his head and closing his eyes. Will said a silent prayer to whomever was listening: for the murdered girl, for her family, then lastly, for himself.

Will was asked by one of the investigators to report to the station for questioning later that afternoon. He nodded solemnly and made his exit, keeping his head down as he dodged the locals with their cries for answers.

Crawford was left flummoxed. His department had suffered cuts lately, and he no longer had the manpower to investigate a serial criminal. He sighed loudly and rubbed his brow. He would have to ask for a consultant – his closure rate was abysmal lately and it was becoming clear that he was out of his depth.

As the body was wheeled away, the crowd of onlookers and reporters dwindled. There was nothing urgent left to see, and the town moved on. Jack could feel wrinkles beginning to permanently etch into his skin.

From over his shoulder, he could hear the click of a shutter. “Hey! No photographs. The tabloids don’t need to see this.” Jack shouted at the reporter.

The woman scoffed, and lowered her camera. “You can’t arrest me for writing an article,” she huffed. Freddie Lounds played her part in undermining Crawford’s reputation at every opportunity, and Jack resented her for it. “Any chance of you giving me a rundown of the investigation?”

The Inspector crossed his arms. “Lounds.” Jack grimaced. “You know I can’t talk about an ongoing case.”

Freddie snapped a few more shots of the church; its idyllic yard and rustic personality made for a good few polaroids to set the scene.  If she couldn’t publish pictures of the actual crime scene, she would have to make do with something else. Like the good Father, perhaps. She poked further, “So who found the body? The priest?”

Wistfully, Jack nodded his head. It would be public knowledge soon enough, and with no other leads it was looking like Father Graham was the prime suspect. Again.

All roads led to the Father. Just like the last one.

“Is it linked to the missing girls? Did you know that most of them frequented this church?” Dismissing the reporter’s questions, Jack turned to leave.

“Do you know what professions psychopaths disproportionately gravitate to?” Freddie smirked as Chief Inspector Crawford walked away.

“I know the list. CEOs, lawyers, the clergy…”

\------------

Will took to sleeping in his office in the church. He left only when necessary to feed his dogs, and even then usually during the cover of night. Since Jack had mentioned to Freddie that Will was a person of interest, reporters had begun to camp outside both his home and his place of work. He couldn’t get rid of them, even though it had been weeks since the investigation had begun. He hadn’t officially been charged of anything yet, of course, but it had been noted by some that Will was not exactly always _compos mentis_. Rumours had spread about his last posting, and it did not paint a particularly good picture.

He rarely saw Hannibal, these days. There was no reason for the man to stop by the church which had now been evacuated of its purpose, and Will did not desire social contact enough to go visit him in his home. It wasn’t fair to drag Hannibal into this mess, Will thought, and so he continued to wait out the media storm, alone.

The restless nights plagued him still, and most mornings he awoke drowned in layers of his own sweat. It clung to his undershirts like an illness, with a companionable fever.

As the days passed, the Father became less and less inclined to repeat the motions of his faith. He lost interest in prayers, and was having to force himself to touch his Bible. It was a struggle, and Will was pushing himself perfunctorily. The rote of prayer left him restless and yearning for peace, instead he drowned further into apathy.

Father Graham was deteriorating.

One night, Will awoke to a loud crash as the glass in the window above his couch shattered. He rolled off it with a start, wide eyed and panting heavily. A large stone lay on the ground before him, and he could hear the heavy footsteps of people running away from the church. He could not be sure if the screams of “murderer” came from real assailants or the ones that bedevilled his nightmares.  
  
Will lay awake until the sun rose, tormented by a sickening feeling deep in the coils of his heart. He swept the small shards of the shattered windowpane into a pile at the side of the room, and brushed down his shirt. He had opted to simply wear a black button-down and black slacks, but hadn't changed in a few days. The Father was struggling to count the days. One stretched into another and the shadows grew longer. His cassock lay unworn over the back of his desk chair.   
  
Will left the church that evening to feed his dogs. On the way back, he was startled to find a few of the townspeople standing outside the chapel door.   
  
They were banging loudly on the panels, fists hammering and voices raised. It wasn't until Will was only a couple of feet away that they turned and saw him. At the head of the crowd was Jack Crawford, flanked by two or three of his underlings.   
  
"Father?" He called. "We'd like to have another word with you, if you wouldn't mind." Jack gently pushed the sides of his open suit aside, fingertips brushing over the hilt of his service weapon and drawing attention to his shield. The few townsfolk came into focus and Will noted with frustration that Abigail Hobbs' parents were there.   
  
"I have said all there is to say, what more could you want from me?" Will was very wary; the angry calls from the crowd told him all he needed to know.   
  
"Arrest the fucker!"   
  
Crawford tried to quiet the hubbub, but it almost seemed futile. "It would seem like you've been hiding a few things from us, Father. After talking to some of your parishioners you stood out during my investigation. We need to talk about the missing girls."  
  
Jack took a few steps forward, distancing himself from the mob.   
  
"Where did you take them, Will?"   
  
Father Graham swallowed down his anger. He curled his fists by his side.   
  
"Answer me! Where are you hiding them?" Inspector Crawford was shouting now, eyes sharp and shoulders squared off to exude a bigger presence. "It's not too late to get leniency from a judge if you come clean, Father."  
  
Will's sympathetic drive kicked in.   
  
He ran. 

  
\------------

  
Father Graham had been running through Wolf Trap for almost an hour. He had circled back twice, and covered most of the deserted streets that fed into dark alleyways in which he could hide.   
  
His feet were beginning to blister and his lungs weren't holding out as well as he had hoped. Sleepless nights and a bad diet had left him in a less than optimal condition to run from his accusers all evening... After the sun had set, it had been easier to dodge the mob who were shouting loudly – giving away their position quite counter-productively allowing Will to stay ahead of them.   
  
Finding himself in a familiar neighbourhood, the Father noted that he was only a few streets away from the church. Would the mob expect him to return there? There was only one way to find out. His heart was in his throat.   
  
Peering quietly around the corner, through the spring haar Will could see only the lone silhouette of a man in a familiar dark bellstaff staring at the door to the church.

"Hannibal," Will breathed.   
  
The man turned his head as Will inched towards him.

The rest of the town had evidently abandoned their watch of the church, allowing Will to approach the entrance of his parish without fear of being accosted. Shuffling feet along the gravel path to the churchyard, Will’s spirits lifted as he looked upon Hannibal’s face. It was weathered and unrelenting, but his dark eyes betrayed a small spark of warmth. Relief surged through Father Graham’s veins as he practically collapsed at Hannibal’s feet, the man before him offering a silent promise of assistance.

He trusted Hannibal Lecter. In his moment of need, the one man he wanted stood before him like a true godsend.

Will fell to his knees in supplication. He begged, head bowed and hands clasped tightly together, for Hannibal to help him.

Swallowing hard, Will pleaded. “They’re coming for me. Think I’m responsible.” He looked directly at Hannibal; the seriousness of the situation forcing his hand. “I need help, Hannibal. They won’t wait for a trial – half the town is chasing me down, an angry mob with knives and torches and god-knows whatever else. I would take my chances in prison, but honestly I don’t believe they’ll let me live that long.”

The curls that crowded Will’s forehead shook violently as Will shuddered with fear. “I’m not even convinced of my own innocence, anymore…” He grumbled to himself. “They’ll probably stone me to death.

With a grand sweeping gesture, Dr Lecter pulled the priest up off the ground and embraced him fast, pulling Will’s head to his chest. They stood there for a moment, time frozen, until Will realised Hannibal was speaking.

On the far horizon, the burning glow of lamps and the glinting of sharpened tools was slowly coming into view. Clamour and clatter followed very shortly after the sighting, and Hannibal sprung into action.

“Let us gather your things, dear Father.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this out, my last week of work was awful and university starts next week. On the plus side, for my birthday I got a cute house plant and also got the first member of our new society that we set up over summerrrrrrr. 
> 
> One chapter left....


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world — he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him." - Revelation 12:9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one, folks. Apologies to my English teacher and James Hogg bc apparently they may not have been spouting as much bullshit as I thought they were... Thanks for reading and hope y'all enjoyed it! When I started writing this in January, there were basically no priest AUs. Good news is there are now a few and I can read them without feeling guilty...

The two men stole into the church under the cover of the ever-darkening night sky. Will hurried up the aisle, Hannibal following behind at a more leisurely pace. He exuded no sense of real urgency, which calmed Father Graham's nerves a little - though truth be told his nerves were so frayed that nothing could possibly settle them entirely. 

"Only gather what you cannot leave behind. The rest you will have to live without." 

Will opened the door to his office and started packing things into a worn satchel. Small trinkets; a journal, a few tackles, his Rosary. Will's heart was throbbing, and there was a dull pain worming its way through his skull. 

Hannibal stood in the doorway, an air of confidence and an almost sultry pout dancing on his lips. Will looked up at those lips, their harsh lines and tender pink shade. He imagined a future full of chaste kisses, quick brushes of lips. A small town somewhere, a quiet life together. Will groaned at the thought. 

He dreamed of hours by a lake, and Hannibal by his side. 

A blink and that dream was gone - just a flash of one possible future. Many more flashes followed. 

Hannibal's voice echoed in the Father's mind, and it was a moment before he realised it wasn't in his head. Hannibal was calling out to Will. 

"Will? Is something wrong?" Will realised he had stopped packing, distracted by his fantasies. Hurriedly, the priest pulled a few more small belongings into his bag and slapped it shut. 

"N-no. I'm almost ready. I just need to go get my Bible, I left it in the pulpit." 

"Then we shall make our leave. I am afraid we may have to slip out the back," Hannibal shrugged his broad shoulders. Will somehow couldn't imagine such a regal man climbing out an open window, but he was grateful for Hannibal's willingness to help him out. 

Silently, the two men moved with haste back down the wooden hallway. A loud gale was battering at the stained glass windows, but there was still no hellish mob striking down the doors. The glass in the church all remained intact; leering eyes in the stained panes there for decades cast judging looks down on Will, cold and disapproving. Dr Lecter noted a slight glow in the distance through a nearby window, though it only served to confirm his conjecture; the villagers were waiting for further reinforcements before trying to smoke the Father out. 

Will noticed the shadows cast from the candles in front of both himself and Hannibal. The Doctor's shadow was distorted and elongated, before falling beneath his feet and following from behind like a doting canine. For a moment, Will wondered what sights Hannibal's shadow had seen. The dull pain in his head begun to sharpen; Will almost believed he saw Hannibal's shadow dance under the flickering candlelight. 

The Father climbed up the steps to the pulpit. Packing his Bible in his bag, Hannibal spoke. 

"Have you decided where you will go? What you will do?" Will shuffled his feet quietly. He was feeling a little dizzy, and rubbed the ball of his hand against his temple. 

He walked back down the steps and stood in front of the gilded altar. He let his tan satchel fall gently to the ground as Will traced his fingertips across the cloth. A few things had been left on the altar from his last sermon - recently Will had become more despondent, and had neglected his duties. He really should’ve tidied them away before he left, rather than abandoning them while he ran for his life. Clammy hands skirted across the white fabric. Will's shoulders sagged. 

“All I need is a stream.” He sighed.

“Perhaps you should’ve closed your eyes and waded into the quiet while you still had the chance to escape.”

Will, still leaning against the altar, turned his head to face Hannibal. He smiled faintly. 

"Perhaps we shall try and cover our tracks somewhat more effectively in our next life."

Will's face fell. It shifted to a mask of confusion; aghast, ire and then finally resting on a stupefied countenance. 

"Y-you-- what?"

The Father turned to face the tall man fully. 

“A wonderful partnership, we had. Leaving a body at your place of worship was a rather distasteful, albeit brass, statement.”

A sinking feeling pooled in Will's gut. It coiled and twisted, entangling his intestines. Father Graham felt like he was going to throw up; he had a strong sense of foreboding and clutched his stomach as if he had just been smacked. "What are you  _talking_  about, Hannibal? I had nothing to do with  _any_  of this." Scratching at the fabric of his black shirt, Will wondered why his skin felt like he was on fire. Black spots danced in his vision, and he felt lightheaded. 

Something dark flickered across Hannibal's fiery eyes. 

Will brought his hands to his face. He saw blood. 

Coagulated blood, dripping and pooling on the ground. Hands flat against the old oak panels. Long dark hair, matted. Large slices of skin. Filleted muscles with jagged edge. A girl, stripped of her life.

Flesh being pulled back, carved into wings. Exsanguination and the paling of skin.

He saw the lithe corpse of Cassie, slumped in a pew. Will walked up to her, placed the girl's hands together and bent her neck into a facsimile of prayer. He whispered something to her. 

"N-no, that wasn't me--!" 

Hannibal walked towards the man, gently placing a warm hand on Will's shoulder. 

The touch seared into the Father's skin, burning through his shirt. Every nerve fired and screamed out in agony, Will's pallid face crumbling further. His eyes brimmed with tears. 

Trying to swallow away the lump in his throat, Will slumped. 

"What do you see?" Hannibal's smoky voice penetrated Will to his core, every cell touched and squirming. 

A pendulum swung before Will's eyes, erasing time. 

He saw Marissa, scratching bloody at the church’s entrance, very much alive and frightened, but losing colour - and blood - fast. Will could see a couple of small puncture wounds on her back; heart pumping quickly aiding the flow of blood. 

Another swing. 

Will looked down to see his hands scratched and coated in a thick layer of blood. There were bits of skin stuck under his nails. 

He turned to see Hannibal, projecting a long shadow over Will. The bright luminescence of the moon shone behind him, and Father Graham couldn't make out the details of his face. Honestly, he couldn't even be sure there  _were_  any details - yet Will could feel the burning stare penetrate his soul. 

"You killed her?" Will asked. He didn't remember being there, but the specifics felt so clear. This was his memory, not a recreation. “Both of them?”

Hannibal tutted, and tilted his head. Still, he stood tall among the headstones, his chest puffed out in semblance of a pious manifestation. "It was... A necessary evil. But you are not innocent in these acts, Will. You were the one who obeyed me." He took a step forward, and the moon formed a glowing silhouette behind Hannibal's head. 

Looking closer, Will saw bloody flecks on Hannibal's neat suit. The spatter was concentrated around his cuffs, hands sticky with red. The girl had stopped spluttering, now, and a queer silence filled the space.

A silvery glint in one hand caught Will's eye, and he saw a small linoleum knife; a thin wooden handle encasing a hooked sliver of metal. The doctor was worrying it between his fingers. 

Hannibal slicked his hair back, coating it with streaks of sticky blood. He brought his fingertips to his bowed lips, and his tongue darted out to taste.

"I gifted you a canvas. Tell me, Father; how will you use it?" 

Will's jaw set, and he picked himself up off his knees. 

He plodded towards Hannibal, and stopped before him. Hannibal tensed slightly, unsure if the priest was going to teeter off the edge of sanity or claw back to himself. He held out the knife. 

Will blinked, looked down, and then reached out to take it. His fingers lingered, pressed into Hannibal's hand for longer than necessary. Fingertips glanced gently over his wrist, surprised to find a steady heartbeat. 

He pulled his hand away, wielding the small knife. 

Will stalked up to the girl who was all but cold now, life drained from her. He made a long incision down her back. 

"She came here for salvation. To seek her Creator." Will tore a chunk of flesh out of either side, separating the skin from the posterior rib cage. He pulled back the flaps, blood dripping on to the ground. Father Graham broke out in a cold sweat, the cool spring air chilled him. 

"She got more than she bargained for. An early appointment at the pearly gates. Her spirit has moved on, but her body - oh, her body will be an offering." The blood reflected dark in the moonlight. “A transformation.”

The cold had seeped into her body making her muscles stiff and pliable. He bent the girl forward, her neck bowed to the church entrance. Her hands still pressed against the wooden panels of the church door.

“God himself will provide the lamb for the offering.” Will said, stepping back. “The angel of the Lord reached out to Abraham, and said, ‘because you have done this, I will bless you. You will be blessed, because you have obeyed me.’”

“Abraham sacrificed a lamb so that he could save his son. I, too, sacrifice a lamb, to save myself.”

Will stumbled backwards. The Father fell to his knees at Hannibal's feet. 

"This is my design," Will whispered. 

The scene swung out of focus, a pendulum readjusted his perspective, and Will found himself back in the atrium of the church. He was panting and sweating hard. 

"H-how could I have...?" He stuttered. “I believe it to be oneirophrenia. The sleep-walking, the fugue – sleep deprivation. A medical condition: a dissociative state,” There was a small flicker of light in Hannibal’s dark eyes; “And sometimes even hallucinations. It has been noted to be related to  _folie_ _à_ _deux_ , and is often suffered alongside schizophrenia.”

Hannibal's grin grew, a sad note touching his face. "You became malleable," He said. "When you stumbled upon my...” Hannibal waved a hand towards the pew where Cassie Boyle had been found, “Proclivities, I was worried I would have to deal with you, too." 

Hannibal shrugged sadly. "I didn't want to. So I let you see me. Do you feel blessed, Will?”

"I let you in." 

Hannibal took a few steps closer, and Will leaned against the altar, backed into a corner. “You really are the Devil." Will flinched, shying away. "You have a click in your hoof.”

"Did you feel so bad because killing her felt so good, Will? Why shouldn't it feel good?" The shadows in the room were growing longer. The only light now was being produced by the candles in their brackets along the sides of the room. "It must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time."

Hannibal continued. "It feels good because God has power. If one does what God does enough times, one will become as God is."

"You're not my God, Hannibal."

"Am I not?"

Father Graham was lost in two minds. He had pictured living a life with Hannibal, far away from here. But he hadn't pictured it to be like this. He didn't know what to trust. 

After a long silence, Will began to speak. "Corinthians, 13:2." Will clutched a hand to his chest, trying to scratch at his heart. He whispered, "'If I have a gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge,” Will breathed in Hannibal’s warm musky scent, calming his breathing. “And if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.'" He turned and looked at Hannibal. 

"But you won't come with me." Hannibal asked - a statement to deny rather than a question to answer. Will nodded meekly. 

The tall man walked towards the priest, eliminating the remaining space between them, every tap of his shoe on the stone floor resonating like a deafening crackle. 

“I can’t.”

He lifted his hand to caress Will's cheek. Hannibal's thumb rubbed kind circles into Will's jaw, and Father Graham leaned into the touch. 

He closed his eyes, tilted his head back slightly, and once more saw the little house by the stream flicker in his mind. 

A tug at the scruff on the back of the Father’s neck, pulling his head back, exposing his neck. A sharp, searing pain pressed on Will's gut. His blood ran hot, then cold, and he opened his eyes in distress. Hannibal was looking right into him, eyes pricked with tears. He held Will's jaw in his hand, the other slicing Will across the stomach. Jagged and jarring, blood poured out of the slash in his gut. 

Hannibal dropped his bloody linoleum knife and pulled his body flush with the Father's. He wrapped his hand around the back of Will's head, ensnaring his fingers in the thick brown curls and coating them with blood. 

The doctor leaned his head close, and whispered into the taut muscles in Will’s neck. “I didn’t want it to end this way.”

Will shook violently. The shock of massive blood loss was hitting him, and his hands tried and failed to grasp on to Hannibal's broad back. He slipped in the pool of blood, falling backwards onto the gilded altar. The fall left Will winded. 

His head smacked the table, scattering the few objects left out on it. Will felt betrayed. He looked at Hannibal and felt disgust, but also something else. 

His consciousness was fading, hands and feet losing feeling and warmth. Hannibal unfastened the top button on the Father's black and blood-stained shirt; Will gulped in a few large gasps of air. 

Dr Lecter was covered in blood spray, dappled across his sharp cheekbones and staining his ivory clothes. He leaned forward, and gazed into Will's unfocused eyes. 

A long, sweet kiss was pressed to Will's lips. He was shuddering vigorously, bleeding out fast on to the tablecloth covering the altar. Hannibal captured Will's lips one final time; a tender apology. 

The sound of a crowd rang in Will's ears, unfocused. He couldn't place the direction the sound was coming from, but it was getting louder. An angry mob, a chorus of angels. He tried to turn his head towards the noise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hannibal stalking away.

Whispering to himself, Will let out a wracking sob. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen."

He put his head back, closed his eyes, and waded into the quiet of the stream. 


End file.
